Father Brown and the Judgement of Man
by demonkatgurl17
Summary: Hercule sets his sights on a painting from his past. A certain priests gets underfoot. [Part 3 in the Father Brown ABO Mysteries]


Warnings: alpha/beta/omega (abo) dynamics, character study, alpha!Hercule Flambeau, omega!Father Brown, light angst

* * *

It was_ not_ stalking, Hercule told himself.

He had pulled off countless heists, all of them requiring what he was doing now: watching people come and go, learning their habits, crafting plans.

Standing across the street from the Belvedere Museum, Hercule gave an unconscious flick of his hand, sending a sprinkle of cigarette ash to the pavement. He would have left by now had not a familiar person walked up the street and slipped inside.

Father Brown.

That had been half an hour ago. Thirty long boring minutes had been spent watching workers come and go, Hercule staring at the same door as he lazily burned through cigarette after cigarette. His feet ached inside his normally comfortable expensive shoes. Cars passed, people walked by, and still he remained, watching that door. Even when the police car pulled up to the building, he didn't move, needlessly courting their attention for-

Really, what _was_ he waiting for?

So what if the priest was _here_ of all places, on the eve of Hercule's planned heist? It didn't mean that Father Brown would actually _attend._ All the better, really, for if the meddlesome omega wasn't at the preview, then he couldn't very well get under foot, now could he?

But then again…

Hercule's gaze narrowed as he reconsidered.

Introducing certain…dependable elements…into the mix could prove interesting. It certainly presented a challenge: stealing the painting from under the noses of the police and Father Brown alike. Now _that_ would be such sweet dessert to the revenge he would serve to Binkie Cadwaller. It was providence, the past coming full circle - stealing the very painting that had heralded the true beginning of his criminal career.

Retribution and power assertion.

At last, the priest and Kembleford's own DI exited the building. Their words were lost over the distance, but the line of sight was still very much unimpeded and it wasn't long before Hercule was noticed, if only by one of them.

He met Father Brown's gaze from across the street, held it just long enough to ensure the bait was set before turning on his heel and making his own exit, flicking away his cigarette before it was finished.

The anticipation thrumming under his skin was a much more potent drug than nicotine.

It was quite the eclectic group the Father had collected. Two betas - an old busybody and a morally-grey lapdog - and (perhaps most surprisingly) an alpha socialite. People who normally wouldn't be caught dead with each other except for one unifying factor: Father Brown.

Father Brown. So ordinary and yet… so _mysterious_.

Hercule was intrigued. It wasn't everyday he met such a convincing act. An omega in beta clothing, as it were. Hercule himself was quite adept at playing at being a beta, but after too long, even _his_ mask would wear dangerously thin, his baser impulses difficult to manage without succumbing to the taint of hormone suppressants.

But this priest… this priest had all but _become_ a beta, wore his mask like it was his true face.

It was _impressive_.

Hercule took it as a challenge - no, an_ inspiration_, to improve upon his own mimicry.

He needn't have set his sights on the socialite, any vapid pretty thing could have served as his arm candy (and cover) at the opening, but the temptation had been too much to resist. The pretty alpha female was close to the priest and what better way to prove himself the true master of manipulation than to make someone close to Father Brown an unwitting accomplice?

Just as Hercule reached out to grasp his prize, Father Brown stepped out of his hiding place, decked head to toe in yet another disguise. The irony of it made him smile. "I don't suppose my goodwill with the rosary would be enough to stay you?"

"Goodwill?" Father Brown shot back tersely. "Any and all _goodwill_ I could have afforded you vanished with the rosary that you promptly _stole right back_."

The priest's expression was so stern that Hercule just had to grin at it. "Come on," he cajoled, flitting his gaze between Father Brown and his own knife work, carefully liberating the painting from its mounting. "Did you _really_ expect me to simply leave a treasure like that to collect dust in some papal vault? Or worse - in your _desk drawer?_ Now _that_ would have been _highly_ irresponsible of me."

"And conducting a robbery in broad daylight within a populated gallery is?"

"This is different."

"Oh really?"

"It's personal."

"I doubt very much that you view the objects of your capers as anything more than trophies or conquests."

In most cases, the priest would have been right, only now, in this particular 'caper'… "You wound me, Father, with your harsh judgement." Hercule carefully rolled up the painting, tucking it away in a carry tube. He found he was only half blustering. Hercule clenched his jaw against the rising irritation at the unintentional score. The priest need never know he'd hit a nerve. "I assure you, this painting is _very _personal and it is also coming with me."

He casually flicked his knife. Light glinted threateningly across the blade.

Father Brown, bless him, didn't as much as flinch, but there was no mistaking the trace scent of fear in the air. Hercule took a noticeable sniff, taking the other man in. Though it was generally bad form to so obviously scent the air (publicly drawing in pheromones in such a manner being a throwback to a cruder, more _primitive_ age), Hercule was in a mood to sting. "Now," he all but purred, releasing the barest hint of alpha musk, "be a _good_ little omega and stay out of things that don't concern you."

Smirking at the affronted look on Father Brown's face, Hercule gave a shrill whistle, signaling to McConnell to kill the power, throwing the room into darkness. With the painting in hand and a triumphant grin on his face, Hercule dashed from the room, his theft successful and his dominance proven.

He loved it when a plan came together.

Rebecca had not been his first lover. There had been others before her and certainly others since, but he had felt so strongly about her and their passion for art had drawn them even closer. It had felt like kismet, or some such some childish notion, the remnant of which the Nazis ripped out of Hercule when they took Rebecca and her family, just as the Nazis had taken countless others .

And then the blinders were well and truly off.

The world was an ugly, _ugly_ thing, filled with ugly people who brought misery and pain and tore at the beauty of the world like beasts, devouring such tender things like innocence and love. The Nazis were very good instructors. They showed Hercule that love didn't last, love could be ripped away - as Rebecca had been ripped away.

Hercule had been left with nothing, nothing but his passion for art, so he poured himself into it, his anger twisting his passion into an urge to prove that he was against the world and apart from it, by taking beautiful things back for himself.

And eventually it felt like it was enough.

Eventually he _believed_ it was enough.

Only now, Hercule was...conflicted.

Seeing Rebecca in the Belevedere brought back memories he'd pushed away years ago - how her lips would curl into a coy little smile, the softness of her hair against his face when he leaned in to kiss her, the ease of simply _being_ with her.

But all of that belonged to a different man. The ache of loving her was akin to a having a phantom limb; Rebecca was something long cut away from Hercule and, over the years, steadily thought less of, until finally the memory of her became faint and intangible and passing from his mind nearly as swiftly as a dream.

To see Rebecca again, after he'd thought her lost was...oddly discordant, like a missed step or an out of key piano. The shock gave him pause, made Hercule's heart trip in his chest, but then he was moving, his body set on following the plan even as his mind was reeling, even as danger surged around him.

Get the art and disappear - that was the plan, though the plan had torn asunder, Father Brown and his loyal dogs ruining everything.

Now he was in a bind. The art was out of his hands, his disguise was unraveling, and Rebecca-

Hercule forced his thoughts away from her, from the undertow of emotion tied to her memory that threatened to distract him and make it that much more difficult to control the situation, control he desperately needed now that Lady Felicia had seen through his lies-

_Ding-dong_.

Ah...The priest had come.

Hercule threw open the door. "Well if it isn't the Bishop!" He glanced back at Lady Felicia with an impish grin. "Looks like I'm not the only one in _disguise_."

Father Brown grimaced, giving him a pointed look said he was _clearly_ aware of the double meaning. Good. Perhaps the balance of power would remain tipped in Hercule's favor despite being outnumbered.

It was then that he realized something was missing from the 'Bishop's' ensemble. Something Hercule had been _counting on_.

_Of course_ Father Brown would show up without his trusty umbrella.

_Of course_, he would manage to unravel Hercule's plans and leave nothing untouched. Apparently, not even Rebecca.

That Father Brown had discovered the connection between Rebecca and Hercule was _astounding _in itself, but how_ dare_ he churn up feelings Hercule was better without? How _dare_ he bring Rebecca up and then proclaim that Hercule had any responsibility for anyone besides himself?

Surprisingly, once Father Brown opened that door, Hercule couldn't help but unburden, the story drawing out of him as though this elegant house were a confessional. The telling brought forth pain as the old wound inside him was opened anew. Rebecca...oh how the pain stung, but it was an old pain, one he'd pushed through on his own, used it to re-forge himself into the man - _monster_ \- he was today.

If Father Brown were a _normal_ omega, Hercule would blame his loosened tongue on pheromones, chemical trickery, but no, the priest was well hidden behind his suppressants and faux beta scent. No, somehow Father Brown was able to draw forth from Hercule, all on his own, the memories - _the humanity_ \- that he preferred to forget.

How the _hell_ was it that this priest managed to get under his skin with hardly any effort at all?

And Father Brown, ever diligent in his quest to save Hercule's soul, pleaded with him to save Rebecca. Despite himself, Hercule swayed towards the good priest's urging, tempted by the drug-like balm of doing a decent thing for another person.

Whether or not he would have given in on his own would remain a mystery, though, as they realized Rebecca and Cadwaller had to still be in the museum - where the painting was hidden.

Hercule loved win-win scenarios.

Pacing slowly in front of the Belvedere was a rather bored looking policeman. Apparently Hercule alone thought this a problem, as Father Brown made to cross the street.

Hercule grasped Father Brown by the elbow, jerking him back with an exasperated hiss. Had the omega no tact? "The both of us can't simply walk in."

"_We _can't or _you _can't?"

Standing closer than was proper, Hercule aimed to bully Father Brown into following his lead. "Just stay here while I take care of him." His alpha pheromones kicked up a notch in fight response, a chemical warning that Hercule was a threat that shouldn't be ignored.

Or disobeyed.

Not that the self-styled "beta" took it seriously, yanking Hercule back when the alpha moved to eliminate the guard blocking their way. Hercule's fury came up short when Father Brown surprised him by distracting the guard with vandalism. Perhaps it was narcissistic, but Hercule greatly enjoyed seeing the do-gooder priest sink to his level.

It was like a stain on a pristine shirt, a fly in the ointment.

A taint in Father Brown's valiancy was showing and it was Hercule who had brought it out. He was starting to leave a mark on the omega and, even though his dominance had been undermined, Hercule couldn't help but smirk as something akin to pride welled within him.

He slowed his descent into the museum's basement, caught off guard by the volume of Binkie's little treasure trove.

The thought of just how many were likely taken from families like the Himelbaum's turned his stomach. He half hoped they would find the bastard already dispatched. It would be nothing short of what Cadwaller deserved.

"Don't even think about it," Father Brown warned behind him.

"Still out to save my soul?"

"Every soul is worth saving. Even yours."

"I don't need saving, Father. I'm all the savior I need." Hercule took the last steps down, getting closer to an exquisite pastoral work, eyeing the dainty brush strokes with envy. A pity it took up nearly an entire wall…

"We all need someone, Flambeau."

"This coming from a man who took a vow of celibacy," Hercule laughed under his breath, turning to face the priest. "Every night in an empty bed?" he mocked.

A flush began to creep into the omega's cheeks. "I can always talk to God."

Oh, how _adorable_…

"Praying for some company? Now I'd say _that_ was lonely." Hercule advanced slowly, closing the gap between them, until he was a step away. "Why resort to calling on the metaphysical for company? Will no _earthly _body do? Just _how many_ heats have you deprived yourself of?"

Father Brown's flush spread nearly across his face. "I think, perhaps, we should split up," he said, evading Hercule's stare as well as his intimate questions.

"I think that would be wise." Hercule turned on his heel and strode off into the maze of artwork and storage compartments.

If they stayed together, Hercule might be tempted to show Father Brown _real_ avarice.

He could show him _sin._

Hercule prowled through the cellar, searching by scent more than sight due to the poor lighting. He'd bypassed the priest's umbrella. His prize was safe for now. The present issue was Rebecca and what she was doing.

And what_ Hercule _intended to do.

What_ was_ he going to do?

The telltale cock of a gun stalled his thoughts. He'd never seen Rebecca with a gun. Before the Nazis came, it would have been unthinkable. But the Nazis_ had_ come and they took more than paintings and lives. They took innocence and love and everything that made Rebecca lovely to look upon- of course she _still_ looked beautiful, but there was a roughness to her now that hinted at a hard past. Even her beta scent was different, slightly sour from the fear and hate wrought by the horrors of the camps.

Hercule wondered how much his own scent had changed, had _curdled_ with every step he'd taken down his own path. The thought bothered him more than the gun pointed at him.

Violence and art. Perhaps they weren't so different after all these years.

Despite himself, Hercule dared to hope.

Hope is a dangerous thing. It can be just as destructive as violence or morals, though Hercule professes to have few left of the latter.

When he follows her through the maze of artwork, it's with hope that he calls out to her, and, perhaps, to the man he used to be, part of him keenly missing the humanity he's lost that he associates with the memory of her.

She's gentle with him, as she lets him down.

The hope that had dared to blossom curls upon itself and dies. He watches her go, a memory once again. At least he'll have the painting, a token to remember her by.

It's small consolation.

The umbrella rack came into view and Hercule smiled to himself, pace quickening, eager to see this whole mess behind him. Rounding the corner to meet him was Father Brown. Ever the faithful adversary.

"I still want you to return that painting."

The audacity of the omega to make demands...

"I thought I'd hang it in my dressing room," Hercule quipped, as he came to a stop, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from clenching them. How many times must this man thwart him in one day?

"And what will it remind you of?" Father Brown stepped closer, blocking Hercule's path to his prize. "Of the past you cannot change or of what you fear will come to pass?"

"Another bid to save my soul, Father," Hercule shook his head with a rueful grin. "There are better things to do with your time. The choices are mine to make and I do so without regrets." And if he did have regrets, it was no one's business but his own. Not God's and certainly not this priest's, determined as he seemed to dog Hercule back onto the path of righteousness. "I'm afraid I've kept my valet waiting long enough."

"Then you mustn't let me keep you."

"The forecast is for evening showers," Hercule stalled, betting that the priest would rise to the occasion-

Father Brown, ever the Christian example, offered Hercule his own umbrella. "Why don't you take this? At least let me protect you from the rain."

"A reckless offer to make to a thief," Hercule warned, taking the proffered umbrella.

"I know that I will get it back when I see you again."

Hercule returned Father Brown's smile and sauntered away, the bounce in his step mostly from having obtained his prize, but also in part from the promise of meeting the priest once more.

Hercule stared down at the scrap of paper in his hand, going over the rough scrawl again and again until he all but had it memorized.

He'd been played, beaten squarely at his own game by a thrice-blessed _priest_ of all things.

Despite the confusion-shock-_outrage_ coursing through him, Hercule finds himself grinning.

For the first time in years, he felt his blood quicken with interest over an actual, living person.

_A challenger_, his alpha instincts tell him.

A rival.

An _equal._


End file.
